Minutes - hours, days, decades - later finds Molly still standing there, her eyes still tracking the rushing-by wind that has long since stopped moving. Thoughts race through her mind like birds bursting off their perch, abrupt and quick and closely followed. Cold clings to her skin from the feeling of the rain, but her hair, her dress, she is dry - an easy perk of her powers. And in the background, the dead still march.
Her heart hurts, that much she knows. An ache has spread across her chest, constricting her breath and tightening her throat.
The air was dark and hazy, the way an atmosphere is after a sudden, violent storm - surely an aftershock of Mycroft's visit - yet there is suddenly no more moisture in the air, and no movement to disturb the paralyzingly still. Her features stay frozen as Molly attempts to sort the growing dread, guilt, and conflict all so present within her.
Frost creeps over petals, painting the trembling blooms a barely-there white.
"Would I be crossing a line, goddess, if I said that I don't quite understand the appeal?"
The voice is low, throaty in a strange way that still manages a silky quality to it; half a challenge hidden beside every vowel. The maiden is envious - that is a voice could tempt a man into hell, though surely there is no use for it here. And again, Molly does not start - instead, she wonders idly if this is a routine thing in the Underworld, being visited by powerful beings who apparently wish to taunt you and maybe leave a bit of knowledge. Could become tiresome, is her conclusion.
"Then again, he does so like being unpredictable."
The unspoken and you are not what anyone would have predicted for him stretches out silently between the stranger and she, languishing and unfurling.
The nature goddess can no longer remain alone in her thoughts, so she lifts her tired eyes from the still ground to confront the new visitor. She lays herself open to judgement.
It's a woman this time - an impossibly wicked, beautiful woman; Molly's breath catches in her throat. Dark hair swept up in an artful knot with alluring tendrils hanging loose, the long white neck appealing below its shadow. She is elegance personified, the slim figure accentuated in silk garments of dark, almost-midnight purple that moves like waves of black water, wisps of translucent fabric hanging low below the delicate, bare shoulders.
But the woman is frightening; darkness seems to cling to her, and the listless air swirls restlessly, unable to stop or rest. She is by no means as imperious nor commanding as Mycroft, but she reminds Molly very much of Sherlock, of the first time the goddess had ever seen him: a stately dark being, comfortable in the shadows and confident in every step and spoken syllable, words that unsettle one like swirling dust.
Now that Molly has landed on it, the thought does not leave her head. They are one in the same - Sherlock and this immortal - in power and aura, but the maiden wishes in her heart of hearts that the god would be less unflinching. More open. A person, with a beating heart and warm flesh.
Every movement of the stranger causes ripples in the atmosphere, as if she is the one source of motion and gravity in this land.
Molly's throat is dry from disuse and weakness, so she clears it quietly. "And who are you?" It hardly helped - her voice is thin and trembling, and a delicate blush appears on the ivory cheeks.
She is drained in this world, opposite a being who seems to thrive in it.
The woman tilts her head, an amused smile creeping across her face. The fine, dark features are haunting, eyebrows lifting in mock-surprise. "You don't know, little goddess? Then I shall endeavor to give you a hint." She suddenly releases Molly from her paralyzing gaze, picking up the rippling, diaphanous skirts to trace a half circle around her, then coming to a stop. "Before there ever was nature, or trees, or birds or those silly little flowers you command there was order, and then" - a slight pause, trailing her fingers across empty air - "there was chaos."
"And the chaos," the immortal adds lowly with a slight, proud smile, power trailing her fingertips; her blood red lips curl around the shape of her next words, "was me."
Goddess of strife and discord, Molly recalls Sherlock telling her. Aptly named, I assure you.
This is the goddess Irene.
"Oh, say you've heard of me, little goddess," Irene implores with theatrically clasped hands. Her voice and dark eyes lower. "Reputation is everything to a woman."
Uneasiness brings a metallic taste to Molly's mouth. Mycroft, she had known, was strictly an enforcer, not one for starting a fight that needn't be fought. But this woman - she is an instigator.
"Eris," Molly breathes, the soft words fluttering away from her. The wind responds to the call of the name, pushing Molly's dress towards her, drawing her in.
"No, maiden," the enchantress entreats, her voice the sweetest honey, "call me Irene."
"Why are you here?"
False warmness drops from her features immediately, eyes and mouth turning cold. Her voice, however, keeps the same current of hospitality above, barely concealing the hostility. "To see my replacement, I suppose. I had been so curious."
Molly's mouth is dry; she swallows. "Your replacement?" she echoes quietly, with a faint attempt at detached interest.
"Of course Sherlock wouldn't tell you, little goddess - our time together was but a fleeting memory in all the years I've been, and truthfully," - her head tilts conspiratorily, but her lips skew ruefully - "I rather think he'd like to forget it."
"Why would that be?" Molly's tone is dry, an easy defense to push aside the nature goddess' inner turmoil and confusion. She is acutely aware of her beating heart as it quickens, but her skin stays cold as ice.
Irene pauses a beat, allowing a wry smile. "His brother Mycroft thinks that his brother is like a corrupted forest, and I a fire - that I burnt and used him up and that it was only a matter of time before the flames became uncontrollable." She pauses; her eyes grew sad in a strange, mournful way. "I rather think that we perhaps were just too similar, and that the fanciful little brother thought he needed something a little more. To earn a higher prize." A cold, hard laugh, and a bitter smile twisting her lips. "At least Mycroft never tried to be a saint."
Skeletal feet trudge, like thunder in the distance.
Irene's eyes turns icier as she turns to appraise Molly. She alters her words only slightly to land a harder blow. "At least Mycroft never tried to have one love him, either."
"Did you love him?"
It's a deeply personal question, but it leaves her lips in such a desperate appeal that the world seems to hang breathlessly on the answer. Molly needs to know - she must - if she may be the only one in the world.
It's the first time Molly sees a hint of real anger on the goddess's face. Irene laughs sharply, a frostier version of the previous. It's unfeeling, though not quite flat enough to be entirely unresentful and invulnerable. She looks like a vengeful demon, her crystalline eyes black with hostility. "Does it matter? I was replaced anyhow - by a less infamous Helen of Troy."
Molly's lips skew to the side in concern. Her delicate features furrow with new worry, her eyes lifting uselessly to the sky. Her small hands twist in the fabric of her dress. "A careless comparison, I hope. That mortal war cost countless lives."
The goddess hums contradictorily - she is entertaining herself idly by contorting her shadow into impossible shapes, its distinct body forced into strange poses before splitting into more spirits, the only sign of the goddess's influence the slight movement of fingers. Perhaps she is tiring of taunting just the nature goddess. "It was more among the immortals than anyone - you forget, goddess, I began it. And even more blood and carnage may be attributed to yours, little one; Demeter hasn't taken the separation quite as well - she's not nearly as content as you seem to be."
The shadow twists suddenly, as though in terrible agony, and Molly feels ill, her face growing impossibly paler. It is a reminder, again, that there is a clock ticking on the goddess's stay in the Underworld.
"Content?" are her soft words. "Aren't I a prisoner?"
Her answering scoff is incredulous. "Prisoner, goddess? Of whom? You cannot possibly keep up this masquerade of a damsel in distress for much longer - the only one who still believes that is your lamenting mother, and I've no desire to see order return on her front, she's been a plentiful source of much entertainment. No, maiden, I suppose the only one left is you - you, still fooling yourself into thinking you are a captive." Her words come from between her teeth and wicked tongue. Irene tilts her head and drops her chin derisively, exaggerating her dark eyes.
Molly's eyes slide closed, sick of the quiet taunting this goddess brings.
"You protest yourself the victim every way I turn, and of course I know you cannot actually believe that, so I must assume it is some sort of trick - so really, is it tiring, to play the only pure one in the realm?"
"I don't pretend to be good," Molly returns softly.
"Who said anything of the sort? I believe you to be pure."
"Is there any difference, really?" Molly nearly cries, half-sick of the conversation and the twisted riddles she is certain to receive in reply.
Irene smiled, satisfied more than any being in this place has any right to. She has been saving this line, and now relishes the chance to use it. "Pure is one who's unstained - unblemished by bad deeds no matter the inclinations. Good is one who believes themselves to be the righteous model, who claims to be untempted by the ways of the wicked." She waves her hand disparagingly. "It doesn't matter anyhow, goddess - I quite detest both."
The nature goddess's words come forcefully, coldly disparaging. "But surely not all the immortals in this lifetime are such creatures as yourself."
Irene's eyebrows rise, impassively impressed by Molly's boldness. "I started the Trojan War just for my own amusement, Sherlock killed an innocent and rules over the wicked, and your mother let countless mortals die in the name of maternal love. You've planted flowers your whole life and remain a maiden. You may be the only unblemished one left."
"You're wrong." Molly isn't quite sure who she is trying to convince, or why she is even trying. She feels so unsteady, as though the ground is swaying beneath her feet.
Irene evaluates her critically, with dark eyes raking over the nature goddess's form. "Perhaps you're right," is the soft, silky allowance, with a measured nod; they have finally arrived to the barb Irene actually wants to inflict. "You can't be completely pure, goddess. Not if you're still here."
The exasperation rises in Molly suddenly, released with the never ending barrage of dissections of her morals and life. She knows nothing other than she has to defend herself, that in this moment there is nothing more important. "I don't stay for my own amusement - Sherlock took me from my realm, from my home!"
"Look around you, goddess." Irene's purple robes rise in grand motion to gesture. "Look at the complete absence of any guardian - though I've no doubt he watches you - or the open gates. From your first day as a captive there was never anything to stop you." Her voice lowers, along with the gracefully extended arms. "This land drains you," the goddess says measuredly, her eyes flickering to Molly's trembling hand. She's been tired - exhausted, weary, collapsing - every day here; this world is not hers. "And yet, you stay."
Molly wouldn't respond, but Irene doesn't seem to be waiting for an answer.
"You are the cause of the end of thousands of mortal lives and still - knowing this, you have stayed. You and Sherlock, the purveyors of death. Two of a pair."
They meet eyes.
"So what does that mean for you, maiden?"
Do I love him, do you mean? Molly is desperate to cry out. Am I the same as him? Am I worse?
Chaos swoops to the ground, catching something between her ivory fingers.
"I don't have to stay here either, you know." Irene's voice is cold, hypnotic again - but so firm in the air that it seems to reverberate. She twirls a stem between her fingers, and watches the petals of poppies drop one by one to the cold ground, coldly regarding their premature demise. "But I found I rather liked it. I know you understand that."
"You still love him." The dawning realization paints Molly's voice, soft and sad, and she can see the motivation now in every word Irene had spoken.
Irene doesn't answer, her attention still focused on the flower in her hand. Her back is ramrod straight and equally still, though her fingers slacken to let the stem fall.
"It is not my feelings that matter quite so much anymore, is it?" She is walking away now, her black dress curling and rippling in some facsimile of wind.
Her body decays as Chaos walks away, her porcelain skin turning to ash, and in a blink - she is gone.